


Fused

by DenmarkStreetGutterClub



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Feelings Realization, Ouch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-19 04:08:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29868924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DenmarkStreetGutterClub/pseuds/DenmarkStreetGutterClub
Summary: After a tragedy, Robin and Strike seek solace.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 20
Kudos: 51





	Fused

**Author's Note:**

> This one hurt. Probably the single most angsty thing I have ever done. Sorry.

Robin stood by the curtain, stunned. The crash team pushed past her, and somewhere in her mind she knew she should move, get out of the way, and that maybe someone was about to demand she should, but she was transfixed in horror at the scene in front of her. Sam Barclay’s prone form laying on a resus trolley, his t-shirt torn open to allow the medics access to his chest, and the livid, angry, open wound in his belly, and so, so much crimson blood. The cacophony of medical terminology couldn’t conceal the rising note of desperation in their voices as they tried to restart his heart, one, two, three times. Then, there was a lull, and the frantic sounds fell away to a resignation and they all began to step away, one by one.

“No,” Robin said, shaking her head, tears spilling now. “No, you have to carry on!”

It was as though she had finally been noticed, and a nurse turned to her kindly.

“I’m so sorry. There’s nothing more we can do. Are you his… partner?” She asked, checking down and seeing no ring on Robin’s finger.

“No, I’m his colleague,” she said, unable to take her eyes off Barclay, willing the beep beep that indicated a heartbeat to begin again.

“Does he have a next of kin?”

Robin’s hand flew to her mouth and she nodded.

“Yes! He’s got a wife! He’s got a family!” She sobbed. The nurse kindly ushered her out of the crash room, and found her a cup of tea. Robin was in a daze, managing to fill in his details with reception, and then sat on a blue plastic stacking chair in the fluorescent glare of a corridor, unable to stop reliving what had happened. Neither of them had seen the knife, and how the guy could have concealed a bowie knife that large, she didn’t know. 

He was cornered, and she knew that should have been a warning. She told Barclay to wait, but he was confident he could overpower him.

“He’s just one guy, Robin. He’s no’ even that big. All we need is the memory stick. If I hold him down, you grab it, and we can let him go,” he’d said.

“He might give it to us anyway if we wait for Strike to get here. He might have the leverage we needed,” Robin had advised, and as she ran through that statement, she cursed that it hadn’t been more authoritative.

“If we wait too much longer, he’s gone. Strike’s late, he might not even get here. Come on, we’ve got this, easy,” he replied, so bright and cocky in her memory.

Their mark had run, scaling the scaffolding, and the next three minutes were a blur. Sam after him, clambering up the poles and planks like a monkey, Robin at a disadvantage in pulling herself up as quickly as the two men with stronger arms. Then one end of the scaffold, Sam saying something, lunging forward and the flash of the knife. Robin screwed her eyes up at the memory of it going it, the shout of surprise from Sam and then the shriek as his assailant had fallen backwards to his doom from the scaffold. Sam had slumped to the side and managed to stagger down. Robin saw the bars dying on her phone and knew the only option was the Land Rover. He had attempted to be funny as he clutched his riven belly, and Robin had driven for his life, but it was no use. She hadn’t been quick enough. He was dead.

Her phone rang. Strike’s name appeared on the screen.

“Where the bloody hell are you?” Strike demanded when she pressed accept.

“Where am I?” she flared. “Where the fuck are you?!”

“I’m near where we’re supposed to be meeting him but the area’s been sealed off. What’s going on?” Strike shifted his demanding tone down a notch at her vehement response.

“Yeah, well they’re probably cleaning the bastard who just killed Sam off the fucking ground!” She said, and broke into more desperate sobbing.

“Where are you?” Strike barked quickly.

“A&E, Royal London,” Robin managed, and the line went dead.

Thirty minutes later, having spoken to two police officers to give a brief statement, she spotted his large frame walking quickly towards her. She stood up and rounded on him as he approached.

“Where’ve you been?” She demanded, her face with the fury of the Morrigan.

“What happened?” He asked.

“Sam’s dead. He killed him. I couldn’t.. He fell…” Robin’s blazing anger dissolved into yet more helpless tears, and Strike moved forward and enfolded her in an embrace.

“I’m sorry,” Strike whispered into her hair as she shuddered enormous sobs into his chest.

  
  


They got back to Denmark Street in the smallest hours of Wednesday morning, having spoken to the police at length. Robin was wrung out, and mutely followed Strike to a taxi. She had dimly thought about the Land Rover, but then she’d thought about how the front seat was covered in Sam’s blood and she didn’t want to think about it anymore, so she’d let Strike open the taxi door for her to get in.

“Come on, straight up,” Strike had said on the landing, steering her away from the office door. “Let’s just get some kip. You can have my bed, I’ll do the chair.”

But once in the flat, Robin didn’t want to sleep. She wanted a drink. Strike hadn’t the slightest reason to argue, grateful for the idea, and he poured two large glasses of whisky and handed her one as she slumped in the armchair. He pulled one of the wooden uprights over to sit in front of her, and shrugged his coat off. Once she’d taken a large gulp, and wiped her sleeve across her nose, she seemed to waken from her daze, and became aware of the crusted blood all over her green jumper. It elicited a moment of panic, and Strike, who had thrown back his whisky, dropped his glass to the floor and reached for her.

“His blood, oh god, I’ve got his blood all over me!”

“Hey, it’s ok, let’s just take it off,” he soothed, helping her to pull it off and discarded it by throwing it across the room. He threw it with force enough to knock the lamp rocking, and felt his own anger bubble up. Barclay shouldn’t have been so fucking stupid. He knew better than that, he should have waited.  _ But you were late. You know you were.  _ And with that, Strike felt his anger turn back inwards, and clenched his fist unconsciously.  _ It could have been both of them.  _

_ It could have been Robin. _

Robin folded her arms around herself, her arms bare in the sleeveless top she had been wearing underneath the ruined jumper. It wasn’t cold, but she was shivering.

“Sorry,” she said, her teeth chattering. “I’m a bit…”

“It’s shock. Have some more of your drink,” Strike told her, handing her the glass again and pouring himself another. Robin took another large mouthful, and forced herself to swallow. Her throat felt sore, and her eyes raw.

“I should have stopped him,” she said quietly. “I told him we should wait for you.”

“He’s a big boy. He makes his own decisions,” Strike said.

“Made. Made his own decisions,” she whispered, and looked up, her tear stained face puffy and her eyes pleading with Strike to make this all go away. His brows furled together with the effort of pushing his own tears back, the anger now diffused into sorrow for Sam, Sam’s family and most of all for the woman sitting in front of him.  _ If it had been her… _

He dragged his seat forward and pulled her into him, and she surrendered herself completely to it, her hands still wrapped around her own arms. He stroked her hair softly, and she didn’t know if it was the whisky or the feel of him so close that was chasing away the hopeless, bitter pain in her heart, but she didn’t think it mattered. After a minute or two she pulled her head back a little to look at him, her breath a little shuddery.

Meeting her eyes again, with that plaintive misery still so evident there, Strike was overwhelmed with a feeling almost too complicated to name. It was guilt, and pity, and pain, and protectiveness, and as he brought his hand up to her face, he knew what else it was. Desire. Bending his head, he saw her eyes drift close to welcome his kiss.

Their lips met softly, gentle pressure and faltering, hitching breath. 

Time hung, suspended.

Then, as though the touch of their lips together had lit a silent fuse, there was a detonation, Robin sweeping her hands into his hair as he pulled her out of the chair and all the way against him, each of them opening their mouths hungrily. Strike splayed his hands on her back, one running up to her neck, the other dipping down to her backside. He pressed her into him, she pressed herself harder. 

After a few seconds, the wooden chair was more a hindrance than a help, and Strike stood, pulling Robin up with him, the kiss unbroken and the passion undimmed, and the chair fell back and hit the floor.

Neither of them cared, lost in the taste of each other, desperate not to break the touch. Somewhere, deep, there was a tiny note of warning that if they did break apart now, it might shatter more than just the moment, and so they pushed harder, Strike spinning her a little and backing her towards the bedroom.

His navigation was a little off, and Robin bumped against the doorframe first, and she gasped, the contact broken. They stood panting, and their eyes met in the dim light, and in that split second, their hearts broken, they both tumbled over the cliff together, tangling back together and stumbling into the room.

Robin pulled her top off, and Strike undid the top few buttons of his shirt quickly and tugged it over his head, before they both fell onto the bed and resumed the bruising, desperate kisses. Each seemed disinclined to wait for the gentle disrobing that both of them, in secret moments, might have imagined. Robin pushed and rolled her jeans and pants down, almost with irritation every time it meant her mouth was pulled away from his, and once he had unbuckled his belt and flicked the waist button open, he was unhappy with his hands not being on her. 

He pulled his mouth from her lips, though not away from her skin, running his tongue hungrily over her jawline, down her neck, sucking in the sensitive skin there. This elicited a whimpering sound from Robin that Strike wasn’t sure was pleasure, but when he looked up, her darkened eyes showed him this was something beyond pleasure, and she pushed his head down again, further this time, to her breasts, which she arched up to him.

He lapped at one nipple, before pulling it in, his hands continually sweeping over her skin, now at her waist, now cupping her breasts, now rubbing around her ribs.

All the time her hands were in his hair, and running down to his shoulders. Then she tugged against his hair and pulled him up to kiss her mouth again, her tongue dancing along his lower lip as she dipped her hand down to his groin, and into the gap where his zip had begun to fall. 

She grasped hold of his length and he moaned into her mouth, his tongue meeting hers.

This was madness. They both knew it. But grief had made them mad, and both Strike and Robin knew the grief wasn’t going away, and so right now, the madness was their only defense against it. The point of no return had been passed long, long ago, and Strike reached down and ran his hand against her wetness, and it was her turn to moan into the kiss.

This was going to end, it had to, they both knew it. But there was no way it could in that moment, and Robin pushed his trousers and boxers down as far as she could. He reached down to assist with one hand, their arms becoming tangled. Strike was exposed enough, he didn’t need his legs to be naked, not for this, not to be as close to her as he needed to be, as quickly as he could be. He grabbed her hand and brought it up beside her head, swinging himself above and between her welcoming legs. He pulled back from the kiss a fraction, and met her eyes again, her expression now steady. She blinked slowly.

“Please,” she whispered. “Now.”

His hips moved before his brain connected, slickly moving inside her. She hooked both legs around his waist and clung to his shoulders. She buried her face in his neck and keened softly at the feel of him inside her. Strike mirrored the grip on his own shoulders by grasping hers, desperate to somehow be closer to her, even as he was already as close as a human could physically be to another.

He was losing himself in her now, the cries she was making, bucking upwards to welcome each thrust he made, ever more frantic, and he felt the final moment building like nuclear fission from the base of his groin. She captured his mouth with hers again, and he felt her go a few seconds before he did, spending himself into her entirely, not just a physical release, but like he was pouring his whole soul into hers.

It was a few minutes before they both realized they were crying, still tangled up with each other, and truly unable to see beyond just being together like this.

“It wasn’t your fault,” they both said at the same time, and they looked at each other in surprise at the jinx. Robin smiled gently, and Strike ran his hand over her face, tracing his thumb over her eyebrow.

“I love you,” he said.


End file.
